Write Back
by adventurefilled
Summary: While they were together, Rachel wrote to Quinn every week. One shot, Rachel/Quinn


**A/N: Hi, I wrote this instead of the MySpace admirer chapter I should have been writing, but the idea kind of got stuck in my head and I needed a break from pop culture references and wacky schemes. Hope this is ok.**

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She could trace the years she spent in college through the pages of the letters Rachel wrote to her, count the weeks in her ex-girlfriend's careful handwriting, beginning with _From the desk of Rachel Berry_ and ending with _I love you_ and a gold star sticker. Quinn put them all in a binder that lived in the bottom of a drawer, in amongst old receipts and pens that had run dry and wires for electronics she had lost, it was the only thing there that wasn't ripped or ink-stained or broken. In between the lines of pages she had memorised there were the memories of everything she had done, of who she'd been with, and permeating it all was Rachel.

_I had an audition today, although I'm not sure it went very well. I miss you._

It takes her six months of missing her, after they break up, before she can bring herself to read the letters again. She still looks for the new white envelope with gold stars in every corner each Monday morning, but it's Saturday when she returns from a party, half drunk and halfway through taking her make-up off, suddenly seized by the desire to see Rachel's handwriting again, to relive the years they lived apart the way she used to relive the brief days they had together. She used to count out the miles between them in Rachel's words and now she counts out the days since the last letter she received. Too many, she thinks, but can't help smiling as her fingers trace _I love you_ and the gold star. It was a metaphor, and metaphors were important.

_I saw an amazing show last night, if you can persuade me to untie you from my bed I'll take you to see it next time you're here._

Quinn never wrote to her, thought there was no need, they called or texted or emailed almost every day.

"Why do you always write?" she said once, when they were together, for Thanksgiving, or Christmas maybe.

Rachel had grinned, "Because," she said, "I like to know a little piece of me is with you in LA."

_As much as you argue against it, I still think New York is my favourite city. LA certainly has its perks though._

In a taxi, sober now, Quinn dares to take the letters out of the binder, clutching them carefully, scared of dropping them, of ruining them. She'd read them so many times and taken pains to keep them pristine, bought a binder in Rachel's favourite colour, she thought she'd like it; nothing else in Quinn's life was that neat. She scours the pages with a smile as the streets whip past, Rachel telling her about a night with friends, about what she was studying, about a movie she'd seen.

Rachel liked movies where everything got tied up neatly with a smile and a happy ending. Quinn preferred ambiguity, didn't think things were that simple. They made fun of each other for it, but she supposed when they broke up that would have been one reason Rachel hated it. There was too much left unfinished.

_We're rehearsing this play, I'll send you a copy. I think you'll like it, even though there isn't any unessential nudity._

"You always write about sex, in your letters." Quinn said once, when they were together, for her birthday maybe.

"Do I?" Rachel said, undressing herself across the room.

"Yeah," Quinn said, "Why is that?"

Rachel shrugged, stepping out of her jeans, "It's a metaphor," and then crawling on to the bed, "Metaphors are important."

"Yeah." Quinn said, too distracted to ask anything else.

_You're going to love your birthday present._

She queues for coffee in the airport, spills some on one of the letters as she sits down to wait for her flight, rubs at it frantically with a tissue but can't stop it from staining. Rachel's dorm room was always so neat, and Quinn always felt anything but. Rachel had photographs pinned up in precise rows, of her and Finn, of her and Kurt or Brittany or Puck or Jesse, even, and many more of her New York friends. Quinn would trace her fingers along them, at Rachel's smiling face, wonder how she went from being the girlfriend of the hot male lead (twice) to the girlfriend of the gay teenage mother. Rachel would pull her away, make her look at the framed photo of the two of them on her bedside table, but Quinn still preferred when they saw each other in LA, or even Ohio, than trying to fit into the New York life of Rachel Berry, stunning young ingénue.

_I met a boy who is not only friendly, but has stunning vocal prowess, I wish you could meet him._

She didn't much know what she wanted to do with herself in college. She studied English, for a while, then History, then Psychology. She played softball but got bored quickly. She sang in a band for two weeks. She spent a year going out and drinking every night, and another at home in front of the TV. She read the first half of some novels and the last chapters of others. Rachel, who had always known what she wanted to do, and had only become more sure since going to college, didn't understand but tried hard. Rachel was her one constant, and she was on the other side of the country. At the same time Quinn missed her though, she was almost glad she wasn't there - she felt too chaotic to be around Rachel, who was steady and sure.

Once, when she was in LA, for Valentines day maybe, Rachel flipped through the notes for a short story Quinn would never write, plucked at the guitar with two broken strings, stepped around a cookbook on the floor. Quinn watched her, embarrassed, said, "I guess I'm having trouble sticking with things at the moment."

Rachel gave a smile, because Quinn had said the same the last time she visited (maybe the time before that too), "Don't worry, it's college, you're not supposed to know exactly what you want to do."

Quinn didn't know what to say to that (didn't want to point out the hypocrisy in that statement), so she buried her face in her neck and whispered that she loved her. She stopped bothering to tell Rachel about the new hobbies she picked up, knowing she'd just expect her to quit them anyway.

_Don't forget it's your mom's birthday next week, I'll text you and remind you to call her._

"So, how did you two meet?" someone, one of Rachel's friends, asked them once.

Rachel had grasped her hand, "Our eyes met across a crowded room." she laughed, which was a lie, but Rachel liked clichés like that.

To her credit, Rachel's friend looked disbelieving. "How did you get together then?" she said.

They had looked at each other. The story was kind of boring, and Rachel had always hated that, Quinn thought. She wished Quinn had given her a big gesture, like a serenade or a public declaration of love at the very least, because the facts (the drunken sex, the casually admitting they'd always sort of had a thing for each other, the slipping into a relationship, the eventual realisation that "a casual thing" had turned into being irretrievably in love) didn't give much of a story to tell at parties. Rachel had looked at her with that smile though, and said, "It was just meant to be." - another Rachel Berry cliché.

_You'll find a mix CD I made for you enclosed, I hope you enjoy it._

On the plane Quinn drops the letters everywhere, and the obese man sitting next to her glares. She picks them hurriedly, clutching them to her chest, and he looks away and turns his iPod up too loud. Once, after telling Rachel she couldn't come to the opening night of the first play she ever starred in, she flew across the country last minute, found the tiny theatre in the pouring rain and presented her with a bouquet of roses as she came off the stage.

"I only saw the end of the play," she said, soaking wet, "Sorry."

Rachel, looking like she was going to cry and laugh at the same time, said, "That's okay. I'm just glad you came, I just really wanted you to be here."

Quinn had felt bad, knowing she couldn't do this for her very often, these big gestures Rachel loved, and not only that, feeling she shouldn't, feeling too much of a mess to do a lot of anything. It hadn't been so important in that moment though, with Rachel's eyes shining up at her.

_I have a week long break next month, I'm coming to visit you, don't argue with me._

When Quinn wasn't far away from graduating in something generic and useless, Rachel had called her to discuss her plans after graduation. She'd been trying to do this for months and Quinn had avoided it every time. One of her New York friends wanted to share an apartment, she said, but they could discuss other arrangements if Quinn didn't want to leave California

"I don't know, Rachel, I just really don't know."

"I don't want to be in a long distance relationship indefinitely, Quinn." Rachel said.

"Don't be then." she snapped, and hung up.

_Please return my phone calls, Quinn. Don't think I won't fly out there if you continue to ignore me._

By the baggage carousel Quinn realises she's left the binder on the plane, although she still has all of the letters, crumpled and disorderly as they are now. When Rachel flew to LA, after Quinn ignored her for two weeks (she didn't know why, just that she was scared, maybe), Quinn had showed her the folder of her letters for the first time.

She'd expected her to like it, it had been kind of an apology, even. Rachel had frowned though, turned the pages slowly, stared at her own handwriting, "It looks like you didn't even read them."

"I did," she insisted, "I just wanted them to stay nice. I thought you'd like it."

Rachel shrugged, "You just kept them separate from everything else, didn't you?" and Quinn understood that this might be a metaphor, and that it was important. Finally, Rachel sighed, "At least you kept them, I suppose." she said.

She handed the binder back to her, and Quinn understood then that they were breaking up, and that it was her fault.

_Enclosed are a few of your personal items I thought you might need, I'll return the rest to your mom the next time I'm in Lima._

She arrives with Rachel's letters clutched in one hand and a small bag in the other, at the address she coaxed out of Rachel's fathers. Her mom had advised her against this trip, but she knows Rachel will like this - flying across the country just to tell her she loves her and misses her, it's almost out of a movie.

The New York guy, the one with the singing prowess, opens the door, and looks at her worriedly and let's her sit on the couch while they wait for Rachel to come home. He assures her she won't have to wait long, but the minutes tick by slowly, and she measures them by re-reading Rachel's letters.

When Rachel arrives she almost doesn't realise, looks up and stands too quickly and her head spins.

"What are you doing here?" Rachel says, with more curiosity than anger.

"I came...I guess to tell you I miss you." Quinn says, unbalanced suddenly, "I don't know. I love you. I want you back."

Rachel looks at her New York guy, then back at Quinn, "What? You think you're going to turn up here one time and say you miss me, and that's it? We get back together?"

Quinn looks horrified, although that is exactly what she thought, "I don't know." she says again, "I don't know. I thought you'd like it."

Rachel looks sad, suddenly, sits down in a chair and leans her head on one hand, "You don't get it, Quinn," she says, "I didn't want you to make big, stupid gestures. I just want you. All of you."

Quinn doesn't know what to say, so she goes home.

She arrives back on her doorstep on Monday morning, the way Rachel's letters used to. She spends a week reading them again, and looking at photos. She cries a lot, she laughs sometimes, when she can. She doesn't know what to do.

The next Monday she starts to write. She doesn't know what to say, at first, what to say about her job (it's crappy) her friends (they're okay), whether to mention the girl at the library who keeps checking her out (definitely not) or the new bands or the TV shows or the movies she can't really get excited about without Rachel to share them with, whether to say she thinks she knows what she wants to do now, that she thinks she wants to go back to college (already), thinks she has an idea about a career (maybe), is pretty sure she can't do any of it without Rachel (definitely).

In the end though, it's easy to write, because she's writing to Rachel, and even with six months distance between them it's easy to talk to her.

Her letters aren't as regular as Rachel's were, she knows, because Rachel seemed to have an uncanny ability to predict the unreliable nature of the postal service, and because sometimes she forgets to mail them, or has too much to say and writes two in one week.

It takes eight weeks and eleven letters for Rachel to call her, and Quinn's surprised, because she expected the other girl's stubornness to hold out much longer.

"I don't want another long distance relationship." Rachel says.

"Me neither." Quinn says.

_Come back._

Three days after she arrives in New York, Rachel shows her the letters she wrote when they first broke up. They start eloquently,_ irreconcilable differences_ and end tearfully _I miss you so much, why did you do this? _and at their worst _I can't help but think there's someone else_.

Quinn takes the letters, all of them, the hurt ones, the old ones, the ones she wrote herself, and throws them away. Rachel watches her and says, "What did you do that for?"

"It was a metaphor." Quinn says, "I've heard they're important."

Rachel shrugs, "Metaphors are overrated."

When she crosses the room and kisses her, Quinn is inclined to agree.


End file.
